


Are We Denying A Crisis (Or Are We Scared Of Admitting It?)

by LayALioness



Series: (belated) Bellarke Week! [7]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Road Trip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-17
Updated: 2015-08-17
Packaged: 2018-04-15 04:39:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4593144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LayALioness/pseuds/LayALioness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You want to drive,” he says slowly, “To Rhode Island?”</p><p>Clarke drives across the country to stop a wedding.<br/>Bellamy won't let her go alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Are We Denying A Crisis (Or Are We Scared Of Admitting It?)

**Author's Note:**

> THIS IS IT IT'S FINISHED  
> I started and stopped so many fics in the past week, it's absurd.  
> Then I went on an 8 hour road trip and this happened.  
> I have never been to any of the places mentioned in this story, so I'm sorry if they're not written correctly, google maps can only get me so far.
> 
> Title from Savior by Lights

“What are you doing here?” Bellamy rubs the last bit of sleep from his eyes as Clarke bursts past him into the apartment.

He’s used to her bursting into his apartment, by now. It’s just something she does, along with eating all his leftovers while he’s in the shower, and nesting into his couch like a displaced baby bird. She comes into people’s lives and just acts like she belongs there, until she actually does.

“I need your help,” she says, serious, kicking off her sneakers as she moves towards the couch. The shoes go flying and she sinks down into the cushions, tossing his afghan off to the side like it’s the enemy.

Now that he’s actually awake enough to feel human, Bellamy studies her. She’s wearing her pajama pants and a windbreaker, with her curls pulled up in a messy bun that can barely contain all her hair. She looks like she just rolled out of bed and marched over to his apartment, which he’s pretty sure is exactly what she did.

“O-kay,” Bellamy drawls. He’s pretty sure, regardless of the way she’s scowling at his blanket, whatever’s going on isn’t actually _that_ serious, so he’s allowed to feel a little annoyed at being woken up at six in the morning.

Also, he’s not wearing any clothes, really—except boxers, which don’t count—and Clarke is clearly trying not to check him out, which is awesome. He goes to sit next to her, putting his hands behind his head so he can sprawl better. She scowls at her hands, and he grins.

Bellamy and Clarke have been best friends for a few years, now, ever since Octavia took that job in Serbia, and they came together because all their other friends got tired of hearing them worry over her.

Eventually Octavia migrated down to New Zealand, which is _much_ less pressing, and so then instead of just worrying all the time they started marathoning _Parks and Recreation_ , and _Law and Order SVU_. And Clarke began to eat all his food and slowly take over his couch like a cat, rubbing its scent glands on everything.

Not that Bellamy thinks she rubs herself on his couch, because if he started thinking that, he’d never be able to _stop_.

He’s been in love with Clarke for a little over two years now, and he’s trying to figure out how to turn ordering Pad Thai and watching reruns on TNT into an actual relationship. It’s a process, and he’s getting there. She’s started checking him out a lot more blatantly, so that’s a good sign.

Each time he and Octavia skype, she asks if he’s made a move, yet. Then she calls him an idiot.

She’s not _wrong_.

“What do you need my help with, this time?” he prompts, once Clarke’s been frowning at her hands for too long. Then he notices she’s actually holding a piece of paper, and scowling at that.

“Finn’s getting married,” she says, and Bellamy forgets all about showing off. He goes to reach for the paper, but she hands it to him without any prompting.

Finn Collins is somehow the reason Bellamy and Clarke are real, actual _best_ friends, which is surreal to think about. Bellamy might have to thank him, after he breaks his nose.

Clarke met Finn at the youth center where she teaches volunteer print-block classes. Finn was apparently working with one of the local group homes, as extra credit for one of his law school professors. They hit it off, and Clarke introduced him to Bellamy pretty much instantly because he’s a pretty good way to test potential boyfriends; if they’re weird about her being best friends with a guy, she ditches them.

For his part, Bellamy makes sure to never sabotage things—it’d be a dick move, and anyway, usually the guys just sabotage things on their own.

Clarke has a different test for girls, that doesn’t involve him. It has something to do with Octavia, though, but they refuse to tell him about it.

Finn, though, just took Bellamy in stride, talking shop about the kids at the center, and then college basketball. Bellamy sort of wanted to hate him—since he was wearing _boat shoes_ , which, why? They weren’t on a boat—but it’s sort of hard to hate a guy that’s helping troubled kids for a living.

Clearly, he should have tried harder.

Clarke and Finn moved pretty quickly, and it sucked, but Bellamy wasn’t about to tell her to slow down or anything. He does his best to just _not_ advise her on the relationship front, since he’s sort of shitty at relationships anyway, and also pretty biased. But when he helped her move into Finn’s apartment after her lease ran out, he probably should have said something like _don’t you think eight weeks is a little soon to move in together?_

But he didn’t, and so when Finn moved back to the east coast with just a _let’s be friends!_ as goodbye, Clarke was both heartbroken and homeless.

Which is where the couch comes in.

They really only lived together for a little over a month, because Clarke is pretty fearless when it comes to Craigslist, but it was everything Bellamy wanted—until he went into his bedroom each night while Clarke passed out on the couch. He thought about just asking her to move in permanently, but his apartment only has one bedroom, and he’s pretty sure if he actually started coming home to her ordering dinner, or ruining his rug melting crayons, or walking out of the bathroom in just a towel, he might actually die.

Octavia was the worried one for a change, convinced it would ruin their friendship, and he’s get a broken heart out of the whole thing, but it was pretty anticlimactic.

They lived together, and then Clarke found a studio apartment with a landlord that didn’t give off any rape vibes, and Bellamy helped carry all her shoeboxes of art supplies and beanie babies.

“Who even _needs_ this many stuffed animals?” he teased, tossing one of those little purple hippos at her face. She caught it easily, and scowled.

“ _Collectibles_ ,” she corrected, stroking the thing softly, like it might feel it. “My dad got me started on them,” she shrugged, and that was really all she needed to say on the subject.

He still grumbled a little, though. She’d be worried if he didn’t.

Before the whole Finn thing, Bellamy was pretty sure that while Clarke was undoubtedly _his_ best friend, he probably wasn’t hers. Sure, she liked him, and they hung out a lot, but she had Monty, and Harper, and Wells, who was her _oldest_ friend, so probably the best by default. But when she went home to find her things packed up in the hall outside Finn’s apartment, she turned to Bellamy.

“I’m sorry,” he says, curling an arm around her shoulders. She leans into him, quick and easy. The wedding invitation is pretty standard; Finn’s marrying some girl named Raven, and they’re offering grilled chicken or vegan pasta.

“It’s not—” Clarke huffs into his shoulder a little, and then sits up. “I’m not upset that he’s moved on, or anything. He moves quickly, we knew that. I just—” She reaches over to show him the inside of the card. “There’s a little note about them, like how they grew up together, and they’ve been dating for _nine years_.” She looks at him pointedly.

“ _Nine_?” Bellamy asks, wanting to hit Finn all over again. He’d left barely a year ago. “How can _anyone_ stay together that long?” Clarke hits him, but she’s smiling a little, so he counts it a victory.

There’s a crease in between her eyebrows, and he reaches up to smooth it away. “Want to send them a faulty juicer, or something?”

“A juicer,” she echoes, leaning back into him. He takes her weight easily, used to it.

“A _faulty_ juicer. It’ll start so many early-morning fights, they’ll probably get divorced in like, a month. Tops.”

Clarke worries her lip, and he absolutely is _not_ thinking about kissing her right now. “I don’t want to break them up,” she says, shaking her head and flopping back against the cushion. “I just think she deserves to _know_ , you know? About me, and Finn, before she commits to anything.”

“She’s been with the guy for almost a decade, Clarke. She probably knows what kind of person he is, by now.” He doesn’t say _she probably knows he’s a cheater_ , because he doesn’t need to. He can tell she’s beating herself up over this, and _Christ_ , he really wants to kill Finn.

“I still want to tell her,” she says, decided. “But not in a letter, or anything. Too Nicholas Sparks.”

“Okay,” Bellamy soothes. She’s laying horizontal now, with one calf propped in his lap, and he’s started stroking it without realizing. “So, what? Find her on Facebook?”

Clarke makes a face. “She doesn’t even know me, why would she read anything I sent?”

“Phone call then,” he shrugs. “You can try the RSVP number. You are sort of invited, so it’s not as creepy as it could be.”

“Ten bucks says she hangs up on me,” she says wryly, and then heaves a sigh. “I guess there’s no helping it; we have to drive.”

Bellamy chokes a little on his own spit, and then stares down at her, checking the wedding card just to make sure. “You want to _drive_ ,” he says slowly, “To _Rhode Island_?”

“I thought you liked driving,” Clarke defends, and Bellamy pinches her leg.

“Not across the whole country!”

Clarke shrugs, clearly trying to seem nonchalant about the whole thing, which is just like her, honestly. “Five days, max,” she says, hopeful.

“ _Ten_ days, there and back,” Bellamy corrects, and then frowns. They should probably factor in things like inevitably running out of gas, or getting a flat tire. “Twelve days,” he decides, and Clarke hugs him.

“What,” he says, muffled by her hair. He spits a few strands out of his mouth. “You really thought I wouldn’t come?”

“I wasn’t sure,” she admits, sitting back on her heels. “You have work, and stuff.”

Bellamy writes weekly articles for a history journal, and currently has about fifteen already finished and waiting on his hard drive because that’s also what he does for fun. “As long as we stop at a few Civil War battlefields along the way, it’ll be fine,” he shrugs. “I could probably write the whole trip off on my taxes, as research, or something.”

“That’s the spirit.”

 

When Clarke isn’t converting teenagers from graffiti to print-blocks, she owns a store that she says sells craft supplies, but Bellamy isn’t convinced. Mostly it’s a lot of buckets and Tupperware bins filled with old keys, and rusty nails, and disemboweled clothespins. There are some colored pencils too, which he guesses count as art supplies, but. Mostly it looks like some weird attempt at a hardware store. The buckets and bins float along the floor and shelves randomly, since there are no aisles, which Clarke finds _too constrictive_ , whatever that means.

He sits on her futon while she calls Monroe, her assistant manager, and lets her know she’s taking some vacation days. Monroe, for her part, is probably ecstatic; Clarke doesn’t seem to understand that she _isn’t_ supposed to work seven days a week, and Monroe was freaking out a little.

The real reason Bellamy followed Clarke home was to help her pack, because if he didn’t, she’d manage to take five hours, without packing _anything_ except a few socks and some beanie babies.

He looks up hotel rates while she shoves tank tops and underwear in a rucksack covered with safety pins.

“Are there any obscure art things you want to see on the way?” he asks, googling Civil War battle sites.

“Obscure art things?” she laughs, but then hesitates. “I do want to see the world’s largest ball of twine,” she says, almost shy. Bellamy just stares for a minute.

“You want to see a giant ball of string?” he echoes, and she frowns.

“Ball of twine,” she corrects. “The ball of string’s in a different state, and it’s not as cool.”

“Right,” Bellamy deadpans, bring notepad up on his phone. “I’ll add it to the itinerary.” There are a lot of _big balls_ jokes he could be making, but won’t, because he’s a good person.

They call Octavia on skype before heading out, to tell her the news, and Clarke leaves after a few minutes to give them some privacy.

“Where’d she go?” Octavia asks, glaring at him, probably trying to determine how much of this trip is because he has a massive crush on his best friend.

“Probably sabotaging the driver’s seat, since I have first shift,” he muses, ignoring her pointed stare.

“You’re an idiot,” she sighs, and he shrugs. There’s no real point in denying it, anymore. He should probably just embrace the fact that he’s pathetic, and his little sister knows. If he’s lucky, Clarke won’t figure it out until they’re halfway through the trip and she’s stuck with him.

If he’s _really_ lucky, they’ll get stuck in a room with only one bed, or walk in on each other in the shower, or she’ll see his messy bedhead and decide she’s hopelessly in love with him. He’s seen the movies; it could happen.

“I can’t believe you’re driving her to break up her ex-boyfriend’s wedding,” Octavia says, clearly disappointed in him and everything he’s doing.

“I’m driving her to the world’s largest ball of twine,” he says mildly. “The wedding’s just a bonus.” Octavia gives him a look that lets him know she’s not at all fooled, and hangs up.

It turns out, Clarke absolutely did sabotage his seat while he was inside, and he’s stuck trying to shift the chair back for fifteen minutes, while she pretends not to notice. She also yanked out his audio book on the Berlin Zoo during World War II, and switched the dial over to Sirius XM-Pop Punk, he’s sure just to mess with him. But it seems she knows all the words to every song, so maybe not.

She rides with her feet kicked up on his dashboard, even when he swats them down again every five minutes. With her legs propped up, her dress keeps falling down her thighs, which is just very unfair. He’s supposed to be focusing on the road and shit, not staring at the cream of her legs.

And if the smirk on her face is any indication, she’s noticed.

Because of strange traffic reasons, the quickest route from San Francisco to Rhode Island sends them down the whole state of California before swinging east through Nevada. Bellamy drives for the first six hours, before his eyes start to burn and he’s ready to just drive them into a semi and be done with it.

He almost regrets switching, when Clarke nearly turns into oncoming traffic.

“Oops,” she mutters, turning the wheel drastically while Bellamy clutches the dash. “My bad.”

“Jesus Christ,” he hisses, when he can breathe again. He shoots her a glare, but she just shrugs. “Are you actively trying to kill us?”

“Not _actively_.” She grins at him cheekily, and he has to fight a laugh.

She pulls them over somewhere in Nevada. It’s not Las Vegas, because they both agreed Las Vegas probably wasn’t in the cards for this trip.

“Next time,” Clarke shrugged, like it was a given, that long road trips were going to be their new thing.

So when she pulls over on the side of a gray, dusty road, Bellamy’s a little confused. He would have heard if one of the tires was flat, and the gas tank was two-thirds full, still. Clarke didn’t offer any explanation, before turning the car off and stepping outside. He follows, of course, curious. Clarke has an uncanny ability to find the most obscure things. And people.

He finds her standing in front of a tree some yards away. It’s huge, with sprawling, bare limbs, covered in shoes. Dozens and dozens of Nikes and Reeboks and even a few flip flops looped together with string.

“Who just decides to throw their shoes up in a tree?” he asks mildly, walking up to stand beside her. Clarke’s head is tipped all the way back, and her brows are pulled like she’s considering the question.

“Maybe they didn’t need them anymore,” she says, and bends to yank off her boots. Her socks are mismatched, one bright pink and the other pale yellow. “Ten bucks says I get these to stick.” Without waiting for his response, she pulls her arm back and launches the right boot up like a football. It lands nestled in a clump of sneakers, and she whoops before tossing the left one.

Bellamy takes a picture of her in a victory pose, pointing up at her boots, and he’s suddenly very sure this trip isn’t _just_ about telling some bride-to-be that her boyfriend’s a tool.

“Are you seriously going to drive barefoot?” he asks when they’re back in the car. Clarke frowns down at her feet, and wiggles them at him.

“I’m wearing socks,” she points out. “And unless you give me yours, I don’t have any other shoes.”

“I cannot believe you threw your only shoes into a tree,” he grouses, tugging off his hiking boots. “Actually, I can, and I’m never letting you live it down.” His feet are at least five sizes bigger than hers—both because he has pretty large feet, and Clarke’s are absolutely _tiny_ —but she slides them on happily and ties them as tight as she can.

They get through Utah, only stopping once at a 7-11/Family Dollar hybrid, and Bellamy fills up the car while Clarke buys a pair of white sandals. She watches over their things, feet propped back up on the dash, while he goes to the bathroom. When he turns the car back on, Cornelius Ryan’s voice fills the speakers. He turns to find Clarke looking smug, sunglasses perched on the edge of her nose.

By the time they pull into a Super 8 parking lot, it’s a little after nine at night, and they’ve been driving for thirteen hours. He’s pretty sure they’re somewhere in Wyoming, but it’s hard to tell. He doesn’t know a whole lot about Wyoming. He’s pretty sure they have a lot of horses.

“I’m paying, don’t bother fighting me, I’ll kick your ass,” Clarke mumbles, but the threat’s ruined by a massive yawn.

Bellamy shrugs. “I won’t fight you; you’re super rich. I’m expecting brunch tomorrow.”

“I’m _moderately_ rich,” Clarke corrects, but she’s grinning as they walk in the lobby. “And, if you’re _really_ nice to me, I _might_ spring for breakfast.”

He nudges her with his shoulder. “I can be nice.”

They get a room with a single queen bed, because it’s less expensive than the ones with two, and Clarke is only _moderately_ rich, after all.

“You just want to leech all my body heat,” Bellamy accuses, tossing their bags on the floor before collapsing on the mattress.

“Well, duh,” Clarke agrees, digging her elbow in his side so he rolls over.

They’ve fallen asleep together, before, either on his couch or her futon or, once when they were really tired, the floor. It’s only a little painful, because it’s almost exactly what Bellamy wants—her curled into him, tucked under his chin, breath hot on his collarbone. But then they wake up, and he remembers it’s not real.

They wake up sometime before lunch, with Bellamy’s hard on pressing into Clarke’s ass. It’s not the first time this has happened, either, but it’s still pretty mortifying. But Clarke just sits up with a yawn and tangled hair. She rubs her eyes and says, “Don’t worry; it’s a natural reaction to the close proximity, and has nothing to do with me, blah blah blah. I know. Let’s go get breakfast.”

He takes a shower first. Jerking off with Clarke right outside is a level of creepy he really doesn’t want to breech, so he turns the water cold and shivers through washing his hair. He comes out in just a towel, partly because he was in such a rush to escape that he forgot to grab clothes, and partly because he kind of wants to see her check him out again. It’s a confidence boost, okay?

She doesn’t disappoint, running her eyes up and down appreciatively, before slipping in to the bathroom. She’s carrying a bundle of clothes, so she won’t have to wear a towel out, and Bellamy’s not sure if he’s disappointed or relieved.

 When she comes out, she’s wearing a sundress covered in orange butterflies. It’s a little see-through, and the pale blue of her panties just barely shows. Paired with the sandals, she looks like she’s going to a church potluck.

Then he realizes she’s not wearing a bra. He might not survive this trip. That seems like a very real possibility.

“Okay, so, they offer a free continental breakfast downstairs, and I know you’re just dying to let your inner nerd out and tell me the history of continental breakfast.” She wiggles her eyebrows at him, and he laughs, only a little exasperated.

“ _Inner_ nerd?” he asks, and she makes a face.

“You’re right; you’re all-nerd, all the time.”

He’s in love with her, and it’s getting harder and harder to not let her know. He tells Clarke pretty much everything—he _likes_ telling her things, likes hearing her opinions and whatever stupid pun she comes up with.

But she’s right; he is all-nerd. “Okay, so in the late nineteenth century, and early twentieth, America was becoming increasingly urbanized…”

Once they’ve each had about four cups of coffee, and two plates of scrambled eggs—and Clarke’s stolen a handful each of the jam and honey packets—they get back on the road.

“Are there any weird trees in Wyoming?” Bellamy teases. He’s taking the first shift, but they finished his audiobook last night, so he’s trying to find a talk radio station that won’t piss him off. Eventually he decides on one that seems to only play old reruns of the Prarie Home Companion.

“Not that I know of, but there is a giant metal T-Rex that lights up like a Christmas tree,” Clarke chirps. She’s checking the fourteen voicemails Monroe’s left her, but most of them seem to be along the lines of _I can’t find this particular type of cotton ball_ , followed immediately by _oh, wait, never mind!_

“That actually sounds pretty awesome,” he admits, glancing over. She’s pinned her hair up off her neck with some of the glittery pipe cleaners from her store.

“Screw you Bell,” she says mildly. “My ideas are stellar.”

“You literally threw your shoes in a tree.”

She just shrugs and ignores him, pulling google maps up on her phone. “It’s in Caspar, which is sort of out of our way.”

“By how much?” he asks, trying to get a look at her phone without turning away from the road.

“Kind of a lot,” she says, not at all helpful.

“On the way back, then,” he decides, and she grins at him, soft and happy.

It turns out there are several “largest ball of twine”s, but the one Clarke wants to see is in Kansas.

They stop at a Denny’s halfway there, because Clarke has some sort of fascination with Denny’s, stemming from her high school years.

“My dad was really into mountain biking,” she says through a mouthful of omelet. There’s cheese in the corner of her mouth. “He used to take me and Wells on road trips up and down the east coast, all along the Adirondacks and Appalachian Mountains.” She takes a bite that, by all rights, shouldn’t fit into her mouth. “We only ever ate at Denny’s on the way.”

“Is that why breakfast is your favorite meal?” Bellamy asks, gentle. He’s eating a burger and fries, because it’s fucking _dinner time_ , and he’s a normal human being. If Clarke had her way, restaurants would offer eggs and pancakes at every hour of the day.

“Breakfast is _awesome_ ,” she says, shoveling hashbrowns down her throat. Clarke tends to eat like she’s spent the last three weeks literally starving to death.

“Your dad sounds like a really cool guy,” Bellamy offers, waving a hand for the check.

They’ve talked about Jake Griffin before, but only ever in small pieces, and usually when Clarke was really drunk. He knows he was an engineer for some fancy eco-friendly company that traveled a lot, and that he volunteered with troubled teens in his spare time, which is why Clarke does, now. He knows he loved spaghetti westerns, and spaghetti itself, and he was a terror in the kitchen.

He knows he died young, three months before Clarke graduated high school, in a plane crash while on his way home from New Guinea. He saved three people before he drowned, and the Coast Guard was never able to find his body. He knows it messes Clarke up, knowing he was on that plane so he could see her graduate. He knows it messes her up even more, not having a grave or something to visit, something tangible to talk to or lay flowers on. He knows she only goes back to the east coast to have Christmas with her mom, and only for three days a year.

“He was,” Clarke agrees, and she doesn’t sound ready to burst into tears, like the last time they talked about her dad. Mostly she sounds disappointed. “I wish he could’ve met you; you guys would have loved each other.” She says it with enough conviction that he believes her, and then he has to think about something else, because _she would have introduced him to her dad_ , which seems like strictly relationship territory.

Kansas is a lot like Utah—flat, and covered in grass and dirt, respectively. They cut through Nebraska, to avoid the traffic going in and out of Denver, and Clarke’s GPS yells at them a lot with an English accent.

The sun sets sometime in Nebraska, which means that by the time they reach Kansas, the twine ball is definitely not open for business. The nearest hotel is a Holiday Inn forty miles away, and he can tell Clarke’s getting fidgety. She’s been cooped up in the car too long, and she’s annoyed she doesn’t get to see the giant ball of glorified string.

He tries to be considerate, and calming, but he can only keep that up for so long before he snaps and starts yelling. It reminds him of their early days, when she was just Octavia’s know-it-all college roommate, and he worked as a mailman and hated everything about his life. They were constantly fighting, each refusing to give even an inch, until Octavia started scheduling it so they hardly ever coincided.

And then he got his dream job, and the girls graduated, and Octavia took that fucking job, and Clarke went from the hot-but-annoying roommate to the hot-brilliant-artist girl with terrible jokes and worse eating habits. She made a home in his couch and stayed there, and he’s almost sure that was worse.

By the time they reach the inn, they’re spitting like feral cats, tired and irritable. She leaves to pay for their room, and he stays, under pretense of repacking the car.

“I could barely see out the back window,” he claims, but Clarke is already walking away. He waits until she’s inside the building, to climb back in the passenger seat, and unzip his pants.

He’s spent the last two days in constant, close proximity with the girl he’s in love with but can’t have, and it’s fantastic, when she’s there to distract him. He loves hanging out with Clarke, she’s his best friend. But when she leaves, or goes quiet, he remembers that’s all she’ll ever be, and it sucks.

Plus, he’s stressed, and a little pissed off, and he needs to wind down, so he jerks off in the Holiday Inn parking lot. He’s not proud.

Clarke texts him the room number, and when he walks in, she’s in her pajamas on the bed, watching _Marley and Me_.

He can tell she’s still tense, lips pursed and hands clenching the remote on her stomach. He’s still feeling languid and open from his orgasm, as he toes off his boots and slips into a pair of sweats. When he turns back around, Clarke’s eyes flit back to the TV screen, and he grins. Even when she’s pissed at him, she still thinks he’s hot.

Which is what he’ll use to defend himself, for what he does next.

“You seem really tense,” he muses, stretching out on the bed beside her. He folds his hands behind his head, and keeps his eyes on the movie, even though he’s not really sure what’s going on. He’s seen it before, because Octavia has an obsession with dog movies, but it’s been a few years.

“Gee, what gave it away?” Clarke growls, petulant, and Bellamy grins. Even when they still sort of hated each other, he liked her all riled up. Angry Clarke is adorable.

“Want some help with that?” he asks, and Clarke looks at him, confused. Rather than explain, he just reaches down to play with the hem of her tiny sleep shorts. She sucks in a sharp breath and whispers _Bellamy_.

But that’s not a no.

He lets his fingers skate up her inner thigh, to drift along the crotch of her underwear. He can _feel_ her getting wetter, and it’s fucking unreal. And then her hips buck up, chasing his hand. He slides down the bed, which clearly isn’t what she expects, and she gasps when he pulls her shorts all the way off.

He noses at her thigh, leaving wet kisses against the skin as he goes, and she _whimpers_. He’s definitely had this dream, before. “Fucking _Christ_ , princess,” he mutters. She moans back at him, something like his name, but a little wrecked in the middle.

He laughs, mouth pressed to her cunt, with nothing but that damp shred of fabric between them. “Still mad at me?” he teases, pressing his tongue to her clit and rubbing the cotton against it until she cries out.

“I will be if you don’t _do_ something,” she snaps, trying for threatening but missing the mark. Mostly she just sounds breathless and shaky, which was the goal.

Bellamy doesn’t bother taking the underwear off, just hooks his thumb in and moves it to the side so he can mouth at her fully. He snakes an arm across her stomach to anchor her to the bed, when she starts thrashing against his face. She comes fairly quickly, but he doesn’t bother slowing down, licking through it and bringing her back to the edge. She’s _really_ tense—she definitely needs multiple orgasms.

And maybe he’s feeling a little competitive. He’s heard her drunkenly wax poetic about girl tongues versus boys’. He’s been thinking about this moment for a very long time; he’s going to get it right.

By the time he pulls away, chin wet and very turned on, Clarke’s eyes are barely staying open. Somewhere in the background, Owen Wilson is crying about his dead dog.

She blinks lazily up at him, pretty much paralyzed. He feels very pleased with himself.

“What about you?” she asks muzzily. Bellamy fights a grin; he’d like to see her try literally _anything_ right now, she’s so tired.

Instead, he reaches down and dips his hand between her thighs, before sliding his pants down. This time he jerks off beside her, while she presses weak, fluttery kisses to his neck.

In the morning, he’s pretty sure she’s going to avoid him, and he’ll have to act like nothing happened. It sucks, but at least he got to taste her, just once.

But instead, she immediately rolls over and snakes her hand down his sweats to tug on his dick. Her hand is too small to really hold him completely, but she just shrugs and dips down to take him in her mouth. He comes embarrassingly quickly, but she just seems smug about it, and then makes out with him for an hour.

“I think I saw a Denny’s down the street,” he mumbles against her mouth, and she laughs and bites his jaw before standing.

When they reach their booth, she slides in against him instead of across the table, and then starts to inhale her food.

“Jesus, slow down,” he says, fond. He’s more than okay with this being their new normal—lots of making out and oral sex and casual affection. It’s almost exactly what he really wants. “You eat like a baby dragon.”

“You’re into this,” she says, mouth full of bacon and eyebrows wiggling. He doesn’t even argue.

They go see the largest ball of twine, and Clarke has him take an unnecessary amount of pictures of her mounting it like a bull. Then they drive a few hours to the site of the Baxter Springs Massacre, which she must have seen in his google search history, and didn’t even tell him about. They mill around in the field for a while, and he reads a lot of brochures and jots down some notes so he can write an article on it, later. Clarke offers to take a lot of stupid photos of him doing nerd things in the field, but he doesn’t even know what that means.

The first gas station they stop at, Bellamy goes in to buy coffee, and Clarke goes in to take pictures of the ridiculous gifts—beer-shaped candles, and marble cat statues—and text them to Monty and Monroe. She comes up beside him while he’s at the counter, and tosses in a pair of neck pillows, one shaped like a lady bug and the other like a pink poodle, and a jumbo box of condoms. She smirks up at Bellamy when he drops his wallet, and then stares at the elderly cashier, daring him to comment. Outside, she hands him the ladybug pillow.

Missouri is a lot more populated than Bellamy was expecting, which he then feels bad about because Missouri seems like one of those states that everyone forgets about. They spend their first twenty miles in St. Louis searching for a place to park, since it’s a big city, and also a big tourist draw. Living in San Francisco his whole life, Bellamy’s pretty used to tourists, but this time he’s one of them.

Clarke grabs his hand so they don’t get separated in the crowds. Also, he’s pretty sure she just wants to hold his hand, which is awesome.

They go to the Civil War Museum first, because it’s smaller than the Art Museum, which is in the city’s center. It’s not really anything he doesn’t know, but it’s cool to see a lot of the uniforms and weaponry in real life, instead of online or in a textbook. He expects Clarke to lose interest pretty quickly, but she’s a big fan of museums too, which shouldn’t surprise him. She gets involved, too, asking different guides questions, and asking _him_ when the answers are too vague. He’s pretty sure it’s only partly to humor him, but he doesn’t care; he likes talking about history, and he likes being able to show off a little. A few strangers catch on, and start listening in while he’s explaining certain displays, and Clarke seems even more smug about it than him.

Once they’ve gotten their fifteen dollars’ worth, and Clarke’s bought a few things from the overpriced gift shop, they go look at art for a few hours. Bellamy reads all the information plaques while Clarke stares at the paintings, and then she buys more stuff at _their_ gift shop. They have lunch at some tiny café that isn’t too busy, and she kicks his feet under the table the whole time.

They end up at some bed and breakfast Clarke finds on Yelp, and he ends up fingering her in the shower, while she bites his shoulder so hard it bleeds. They don’t bother getting dressed, and she fucks him on the bed for good measure, before they fall asleep.

He wakes up when she grinds back against his dick, but he just rolls over on his back and pulls her up so her thighs fall open on either side of his jaw. She grinds against him mercilessly, and he can barely breathe, but it’s worth it when she comes apart screaming.

“Breakfast?” she says after, still panting a little. She’s fallen to the side, limbs bent at odd angles, with a leg sprawled across his chest. He strokes her calf and grins.

“I just had mine,” he teases, and she kicks him.

He goes to check them out and pack up the car, and when he comes back, Clarke is laying diagonal on the bed, face-timing Octavia. They’re chatting, easy and happy, and he watches for a moment, feeling warm. Then Octavia notices him in the distance and yells at him while Clarke laughs, and the moment is gone.

They don’t bother doing anything in Illinois, because the wedding is in three days, and Clarke wants to spend some time with her mom.

“She’s always working, and _never_ takes time off when she should,” she complains, spearing her eggs with a fork. Bellamy grins down at his coffee, because she doesn’t realize she’s describing herself, too. “And don’t worry about what to wear, or anything; she wears pantsuits pretty much constantly, but that’s just her, she doesn’t mind jeans or anything.”

Bellamy’s head snaps up so hard his neck cricks, and he winces. “Wait, what,” he says dumbly. “You want me to meet your mom?”

“Well, yeah,” Clarke says, amused. “Why, do you not want to?” She doesn’t sound hurt or anything, just a little surprised.

“No,” he says quickly. “I do. I just, uh. What’ll you…introduce me as?” He rubs his neck, feeling thirteen again, not sure if the girl he likes, likes him back. Clarke just grins brightly.

“You’re _nervous_ ,” she says, gleefully. “I can’t wait to tell Octavia.”

Bellamy rolls his eyes, and nudges her leg with his boot. “You can’t just tattle on me to my little sister.”

“Too late,” she chirps, standing up. “I’m gonna use the bathroom. Try not to do anything dumb while I’m gone.”

She must text Octavia as soon as she leaves, because suddenly his phone rings. “Shouldn’t you be asleep?” he says, in place of hello. “What time is it there?”

“I’m exactly twenty-four hours ahead of you, Bell,” Octavia says with a sigh, which isn’t really fair. It’s not like he knew that; he’s not in his usual time zone. “I’m in your future.”

“Cool, what’s Clarke’s mom like?” he asks, purposefully throwing her a bone, because she’s fucking nosy, and he’s a good brother. Also because Clarke will definitely tell her, anyway.

She gasps. “You’re meeting the parent already? You two should’ve gone on this road trip years ago.”

“Probably,” Bellamy says, mild. “Has she already told you?”

“That you guys are going at it like rabbits, giving hotel owners nightmares all across the country? Not in so many words, but yes.”

Bellamy sighs. “Any tips on getting Mrs. Griffin to like me, so she can talk Clarke into marrying me?”

“Wow, getting the in through her mom. Solid plan, Bell. Not creepy at all.”

“What did I hear this morning, about you dating some thirty year old fisherman?” he asks pointedly.

“He’s twenty-eight, and a deep-sea diver. He found a bunch of ancient pirate stuff last summer—you’d like him.”

“Doubtful,” he mutters, but he doesn’t really mean it. For the most part, Octavia is a pretty good judge of character. But her boyfriends automatically get a mark against them, for being her boyfriend.

Clarke slides in beside him, blatantly. She presses in so she can hear his sister, and he slings an arm around her shoulders. “What are you guys talking about?”

“You and my brother,” Octavia chirps, and Bellamy frowns, eyeing Clarke carefully. She’s eyeing him, too. “What are you calling him? Bedmate? Fuck buddy?”

“Boyfriend,” Clarke says, decisive and easy. Bellamy knows the look on his face is silly and pathetic, but he doesn’t really care.

“You heard her,” he says. “Love you, O.” He hangs up before she can speak, and kisses Clarke a little too heatedly for the family-friendly diner.

“So, you’re excited to meet my mom?” Clarke teases when he pulls away. Her lips are wet, from _him_ , and it’s really hard to not drag her back to the bathroom.

“I’m excited to meet your mom,” he confirms. “As your boyfriend,” he adds, because she probably knows already, but he wants to make sure. She nudges him with her shoulder as they walk out the door.

The thing is, Bellamy has met Clarke’s mom before, in the background of her Christmas skype calls. They’ve waved to each other cordially, while Clarke tossed out haphazard introductions. But he’s pretty sure she doesn’t actually remember him, and he doesn’t really know all that much about her. For all that Clarke talks about her dad, her mom doesn’t come up that much in conversation.

He knows she works a lot, and is some sort of surgeon, is conservative but not overtly so, and isn’t religious, and is extremely rich. Also apparently she wears pantsuits constantly.

He also knows she lives in Pennsylvania, since that’s where Clarke is from. He expects her to pull up to some giant penthouse in the city, but instead she drives them to some picturesque suburb on the western side of the state, called Radnor Township. He’s not exactly clear on what a township is, but it looks like something out of _Midsomer Murders_.

It’s evening by the time they arrive at Clarke’s childhood home, which is everything he thought it would be; enormous, well cared for, and beautiful. The second floor windows are _stained glass_. The roof has solar panels. It’s a lot to take in, and so Bellamy just stares for a few minutes, feeling very underdressed in his old knockoff jeans, and Seminal Fluids shirt.

“You’ll be fine,” Clarke says, gripping his hand. She’s grinning up at him, flushed and happy, and her hair’s a mess from the trip and also from their afternoon pit stop. Octavia may have had a point about the rabbits thing.

“I know,” he says, all false confidence. “I’m very likable.”

Clarke snorts, but doesn’t deny it outright. He slings their duffels over one shoulder, and follows her up to the door.

Abby pulls it open before they can knock, and pulls her daughter into a hug. Clarke is happy—maybe not the happiest he’s ever seen her, but she’s glad to be here. She’s missed her mom.

He has just a moment to feel nervous and out of place, before Abby is facing him and extending a hand. He’s relieved by the handshake—a hug would feel premature. “It’s nice to finally meet in person,” she says with a thin smile.

“Absolutely,” he agrees, and Clarke’s watching the exchange in amusement. He makes a face at her when Abby’s back is turned.

Clarke tugs him upstairs to drop their bags off. Her childhood bedroom is everything he’d hoped for; pastel pinks, more pillows than mattress, a window seat filled with cushions and beanie babies and nice books. There’s a mural on one wall that he’s sure she painted, of dark trees and neon birds and a deer with two heads for some unknown reason. It must have been during high school, her Sylvia Plath phase.

“So this is the princess’s castle,” he muses, teasing. Clarke throws a fringed pillow at his face.

“You like it,” she decides, coming up to stand in front of him. She tugs at his belt buckle, giving a coy smile. “Wanna fuck me in my childhood room?” She falls to her knees without another word, and he doesn’t even try to swallow his whimper.

He does stop her hands, though, hissing “Your mom is _right downstairs!_ ”

Clarke just rolls her eyes, pulling his zipper down with her teeth, which. His mind goes blank for a long moment. “She knows I’m an adult,” she mumbles, tugging at the band of his boxers. “Plus, she’s a doctor. If anything, she’ll be glad we’re practicing safe sex.”

Then she licks a hot stripe up the length of him, and Bellamy can’t really argue with that. It takes him a few tries to kick the door shut behind him, but eventually he does it, and then just lets himself go.

He’s very much regretting that, when they’re eating dinner in the formal dining room just an hour later. Clarke keeps winking at him when her mother isn’t looking, and he almost chokes on his pasta every time. Abby seems rather amused by it all, which just makes it worse, because he’s sure she _knows_.

Especially since, just as Bellamy’s about to turn on the shower—he’d spent a good amount of time taking pictures of all the platinum faucet heads and granite countertops, and snapchatting them to Octavia—Clarke _picks the lock_ and slips inside.

“Jesus—” Bellamy snaps, catching himself on the glass doors. Clarke is clearly trying not to laugh, and he glares at her. “Did you seriously just break into the bathroom?”

She holds up a butter knife in answer, and then takes off her shirt.

“Your mother is going to hate me,” Bellamy says, but it comes out more as a whine because now she’s got her bra off, and he can’t exactly say _no_.

“We’re conserving water,” she says, kicking off her jeans and stepping into the stall.

“Just curious, are you _actually_ a nymphomaniac?”

She shrugs and makes room for him under the water, while he starts to lather her hair. “Just with you,” she says, and puts her tongue in his mouth.

It’s easy, after that, to just shove her up against the tile and press inside her. Soap gets in their eyes, and their mouths a little, but it doesn’t burn enough for them to actually stop. When they’re finished, they really only have enough energy to rinse off, and then collapse in her bed, still soaking wet.

In the morning, Bellamy wakes up alone, which is sort of disappointing. He’s been looking forward to morning sex, now that it’s become a regular thing. It’s pretty much his favorite thing, now; tired and rumpled Clarke is the best.

His phone is blinking on the side table, and he finds Octavia’s retaliated to his overload of fancy Griffin household photos, with pictures of her pet turtles having sex, and then one of her and an enormous guy in scuba gear Bellamy assumes is the too-old-for-her boyfriend. He has a short Mohawk, and part of a neck tattoo is creeping out of his scuba suit. Bellamy hates him on principle.

He sends her a picture of him scowling, with the caption _The brother does not approve_.

She texts back almost immediately, saying _u dont need to. i approve. and if i dont marry lincoln than im stealing clarke_

He grins stupidly, which probably isn’t an appropriate reaction, but he’s not actually worried about Clarke leaving him. _You can’t steal Clarke, she’s afraid of flying._

_they have drugs 4 that. now leave me alone and go be scared of ur future mom-in-law_

_I’m not scared, I just want to make a good impression._ He hopes she can tell that he’s texting her petulantly.

_god ur pathetic. have fun being lame w ur gf and ur gf’s mom_

_Beats turtle sex._

_turtle sex is more beautiful & majestic than u will ever be _

He texts _I love you_ and then turns off his phone before she can send him a bunch of inappropriate emoji’s in response. Then he spends more time than he should staring at the clothes in his duffel bag, debating over what to wear. He’s never actually had to worry about what he looks like—he’s not a fan.

In the end, he goes with a pair of flannel pajama pants and a plain Hanes t-shirt. It’s still morning, technically, so he can probably get away with it. Most of his other pants have holes in the knees, anyway.

He hears the hum of conversation, while he’s halfway down the stairs. He knows it’s Clarke and her mom, but he can’t actually tell what they’re saying. But he hears Clarke laugh, short and happy, so he’s not that nervous about it.

He finds them in the kitchen, each perched on a stool on either side of the bar counter, nursing a mug of coffee. They’re positioned almost identically, mug in hand, and feet hooked around the stools’ legs. Abby has a newspaper open in front of her, but isn’t actually reading it, while the comics page has been stolen by Clarke. She glances up as he walks in the room, and beams brightly.

He knows he’s grinning stupidly back at her, but he can’t help it. Besides, there are probably worse things he could do in front of Abby, than look stupidly into her daughter.

He comes up and leans against Clarke’s shoulder, stealing a long sip from her mug. She scrunches her nose at him and he grins. “Morning.”

“Did you sleep well, Bellamy?” Abby asks politely, and he nearly chokes on the coffee. Clarke smirks.

“Yes, thank you, ma’am,” he coughs out. Abby nods, seemingly oblivious to his discomfort. It could all be an act, and she could be _very_ aware of what he and her daughter had gotten up to last night, but he doubts it. She seems sincere in not caring.

“Mom and I wanted to show you around town today,” Clarke chirps, taking her mug back while he slides up on the stool beside her. His legs are a little too long to bend comfortably, so he sprawls them a little. “Think you’re up for it?”

“Clarke says you’re a fan of history,” Abby adds.

“ _Super_ fan,” Clarke corrects, fond.

“I am, yeah,” Bellamy nods, neck warm and splotchy. “I should probably, uh, go get dressed.” He slides down, a little awkward because of his legs and overall awkwardness.

Clarke hops down easily. “I’ll help,” she says cheerfully, and he looks at her warily. She pretends not to see.

It takes them fifteen minutes more than it should to get ready, partially because Clarke keeps trying to jump him, and partially because Bellamy doesn’t actually _stop_ her from jumping him. Abby is doing the crossword, dressed in a smart charcoal pantsuit, when they finally come down.

They take Abby’s Volvo, because it’s nicer than Bellamy’s old Saturn, and because it has a GPS with a Local Attractions option. Clarke and her mom take him to see all the sites listed on the National Register of Historic Places, which include a Welsh Quaker meetinghouse from the 1700s, an enormous mansion converted into a college, and the graveyard and most of an old Episcopal church.

They have brunch at a place that Abby clearly chose so they would feel comfortable, but which Bellamy wouldn’t be able to afford, anyway. He offers to pay for their meal anyway, but Clarke just rolls her eyes while Abby kindly hands her card over. It’s the black kind, which he’s pretty sure means there’s no credit limit, so he doesn’t fight her too hard.

Then Abby has some sort of work function, so Clarke spends the afternoon dragging him through the town, pointing out all the spots that served some pivotal role in her childhood.

“And _that’s_ the dugout where I kissed my first girlfriend, Lilly. We were on the softball team together.” Clarke stares at the cinderblocks fondly, while Bellamy toes at the perfectly trimmed grass. Even the school baseball field is nicer than anything in his neighborhood; they were lucky if they got a lot filled with sand.

“How old were you?”

Clarke tips her head, thinking. It can’t have been _that_ long ago, but he gets it. His high school memories are fuzzy, at best. “Fifteen,” she decides. “I asked her to homecoming, but she stood me up. So I spent the night with Wells and his date, instead.”

She points to a nice three-story Victorian house, on the other side of the field. “That was his house. His dad would invite all the sports teams over after every game, for snacks and sparkling cider.” Bellamy scoffs without really meaning to, but she just grins wryly. “I know; everyone here is unnecessarily rich. But, the Jaha’s were always nice about it. Wells used to volunteer with my dad, and help the kids with their homework.”

Bellamy opens his arm and lets her fall into him, taking her weight. He presses his mouth to her hair. “Want to make out in the dugout?”

Clarke grins up at him. “I thought you’d never ask.”

When Abby gets home, it’s after dinner, and Clarke and Bellamy are curled up on the living room couch, watching the extended edition of _Ghostbusters_. Clarke wanted to have sex on the couch, but Bellamy was worried her mom would walk in on them, so they made scrambled eggs and put in the movie, instead.

The next day, Clarke wants to spend some time with her mom. Apparently they go hiking each time she visits, so Bellamy decides to call up a guy he knows from the magazine. He’s written a few articles on the historical accuracies of armor in film, and he makes chainmail and sells it at Renaissance Faires all around the country. And he happens to live just forty minutes away.

Bellamy’s never actually met Kyle Wick, but they’ve e-mailed a few times to get different viewpoints on certain time periods, and they’ve proofread each other’s articles before. He meets Wick at a Starbuck’s, and finds him sitting at a back table, sipping a venti passionfruit lemonade and flipping through some metalworking mag.

“Does this feel like a blind date to you?” Bellamy asks in greeting as Wick shakes his hand.

“Nah, I totally Facebook stalked you after that first e-mail,” Wick grins. “What, you didn’t look me up on Instagram? I’m hurt.”

“I like to use my imagination.”

“Your loss,” Wick shrugs. “I have excellent taste in meal pictures.”

It shouldn’t really surprise Bellamy that he gets along with Wick—they _have_ had conversations before—but Bellamy doesn’t really get along with anyone, at least not at first, so it does surprise him a little, how _well_ they get along. By the time they leave the coffee shop, they’ve exchanged phone numbers and life stories, and are planning Wick’s upcoming vacation to the west coast. Mostly, they’re planning to marathon _Aliens Built the Pyramids_ and surf a lot.

“Also I hear good things about the burritos,” Wick adds.

Clarke and Abby are already home by the time Bellamy gets back, and they go out to eat at a Greek restaurant that makes him feel like an extra in a Scorsese film. He eats something with a lot of meat and goat cheese, and then spends the night breathing all over Clarke after she complains about his breath in the car. She squeals and then tries to wrestle him into submission, which would be cute if she didn’t use her elbows and bite so damn much. In the end, they agree it’s a draw, and then make out for a while.

In the morning, Clarke shakes him awake.

“Hmm,” Bellamy groans, blinking enough to see the sun has barely risen, which means he absolutely does not have to be awake for at least three more hours, and isn’t sure why his girlfriend is poking him in the neck. It’s probable she wants to have sex, which he’s okay with, but he also doesn’t feel fully human right now. “You’ll have to be on top,” he decides, eyes still shut. He can have sex with his eyes closed.

“The wedding is today,” Clarke says, which isn’t the most romantic thing ever, but he figures she’s probably pretty tired, too.

“Mhm,” Bellamy agrees, flailing an arm out. His hand lands on her thigh, and he strokes the skin there a little.

“The wedding is _today_ ,” Clarke repeats, only now her voice is on the verge of hysterical. Bellamy frowns, cracking an eye open to squint up at her. She looks as panicked as she sounds. Maybe more.

“Hey,” Bellamy grunts, sitting up. He rubs his face, and reaches out to curl a hand around her neck. She leans into it a little. “It’s gonna be fine. This is why we came here,” he reminds her. “So you can tell this Raven girl that her fiancé’s a dick, and then we can have hot coatroom sex at their reception.”

“What if she hates me,” Clarke says, so soft he almost doesn’t hear it. He can’t help frowning—he isn’t sure why she’s so worried, suddenly, or what brought this on.

“If she hates you for telling the truth, then she marries Collins, and they deserve each other.” He rubs the skin over her pulse point, and she swallows against his thumb. “And we’ll still have sex in the coatroom,” he adds, and she laughs.

“I love you,” she breathes, staring at him intently. She’s clearly waiting for his reaction, but not at all anxious, or even expectant. She’s just curious to see what he’ll do.

If he were more awake, he might say something romantic, or maybe just kiss her and hope she understands. As it is, he just lets a smile spread over his face, silly and hopeless. “I love you, too.”

“Oh, good,” Clarke nods, swinging a leg over his lap. “I thought you were just with me for my money.”

“Well, you’re with me for my body,” Bellamy points out, grinning up at her. This is probably the best moment of his life. “So I think we’re even.”

“We can be shallow together,” Clarke agrees, and kisses him.

Clarke writes Raven a letter on the drive to Coventry, because she’s still worried the bride will murder her in a jealous rage and bury her under a gazebo.

But then they pull up outside the church, and Clarke actually _sees_ her, with some of the wedding guests. She’s a pretty brunette, in a bathrobe, chatting happily on the wooden steps.

“I have to tell her,” Clarke says, clutching Bellamy’s hand. She looks at him, petrified. “Will you come with me?”

“Of course.” It’s not even a question, really. He went on an impromptu road trip across the country for her—this is nothing.

“You’ll need a suit,” Clarke decides, clicking her tongue as she studies his rumpled Hendricks tee. She’s wearing another sundress, and _of fucking course_ she looks ready for a wedding.

Bellamy frowns. “I didn’t bring one.” He’s not sure he even _owns_ a suit—hasn’t worn one since he got the job at the magazine, and stopped having to go to job interviews. He’d thought they were just going to _talk_ to Raven, not actually attend her wedding.

Clarke’s worrying her lip, clearly trying her best to not freak out. She’s not very good at it. Clarke spends most of her free time on crossword puzzles, and overanalyzing things.

“I can call someone,” he placates, digging around for his phone. Wick’s phone number blinks up at him as he dials. He picks up on the second ring.

“Go for Santa.”

“Wick? It’s Bellamy.”

“Oh, hey. What’s up, man? Miss me already?”

Bellamy rolls his eyes. “Not quite. What are you up to, today?”

“That depends entirely on what you say next.”

“My girlfriend and I have to stop this girl from marrying her asshole fiancé, and I need a suit.”

“Text me the address,” Wick orders, and Bellamy hears clinking metal in the background, like car keys. “I’ve always wanted to crash a wedding.”

“I’m glad I could make this happen for you,” Bellamy says, and hangs up. He sends him the address of the church, and checks the clock on the dash. It should take three hours—two and a half if Wick speeds. They’ve got almost four until the wedding. It’ll definitely be a close call.

“You made a friend,” Clarke says, amused.

“Don’t sound so surprised. I’m likable.” He squeezes her hand, and she props her feet on the dashboard. “ _You_ like me,” he points out.

“Yeah,” she agrees, squeezing his back. “But you like me too, so we’re even.”


End file.
